


Two Feet Standing On A Principle (Day Five- Cuddling for Warmth)

by providentialeyes



Series: Morston Week 2020 [5]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arguing, Banter, Dirty Talk, Getting Together, Heavy Angst, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Tent Sex, drunk foolery, kinda tendy, kink virgin arthur tho heh, not a virgin john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25890256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/providentialeyes/pseuds/providentialeyes
Summary: “I would’ve-” Arthur swallows quickly as his voice cracks, too thick to push out another syllable, “I woulda let you.”John’s eyes dart over his face, looking for the joke, the lie.“If you hadn’t been skunked when you told me,” Arthur whispers, pressing his lips together nervously, “I didn’t want you to… I didn’t want anythin’ to happen while you were…”“Oh,” John whispers back, hoarse and harrowed, “… Oh.”
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: Morston Week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874179
Comments: 6
Kudos: 89
Collections: Morston Week 2020





	Two Feet Standing On A Principle (Day Five- Cuddling for Warmth)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Still by Daughter](https://open.spotify.com/track/32VyTnnnqys5QNS2OoKJmx?si=eDGEewTcQFqKn3Q6QHnH2w)  
> was tied between this and 'cold smoke seeping outta colder throats'
> 
> quintessential 'i made a move on my friend who I'm not sure is queer and now i think they hate me' mood in the beginning

“You know,” John slurs as he leans too far towards the older man, having to flail and catch himself. 

“What do I know?” Arthur asks tiredly, trying to focus on his journal while John’s been pickled and pestering him for an hour at least. 

“What I wanna do.”

“Go to sleep?”

“Nah, _no_ ,” John huffs, and laughs, and it’s low and rolling. 

Churning in Arthur’s gut as the tone echoes, makes him nervous as all hell. 

“Then what?” Arthur asks cautiously. 

“Wanna… Get you in my mouth. Choke on you,” John struggles with each syllable, shifts onto his knees and reaches his hand out, towards Arthur’s arm, “Make you feel real good.”

Arthur grabs it, instinct more than anything. 

“You’re drunk,” Arthur says hoarsely. 

“Want it dry as the desert s’well,” John mutters and frowns down at Arthur’s hand around his wrist like it’s a puzzle or a crossword he doesn’t quite know the answer to. 

“Don’t do this-”

“Please?” John hums and Arthur doesn’t resist when his fingers are peeled back, John cradling them in both hands. 

The younger man guiding Arthur’s hand to his dark hair, threading in the fingers, encouraging them to grip. 

John leans in, breath sharp with whiskey. 

“Please?” John asks again, starts to say something else.

“You’ll regret it-” Arthur’s nose wrinkles, brows furrowing in anger, “Don’t do this, John, I swear you-”

“C’mon,” John whispers, “Arthur, don’t gotta tell no one.”

“Jesus, just make nice with Abigail and-”

“No,” John says and practically pouts, “Abi’s long moved on, Art. ‘Sides, want you, want your-”

“ _Stop_ ,” Arthur growls, gets a proper grip on John’s hair and yanks the younger man back. 

John breathes out shakily, staring up at the sky, neck craned painfully. 

“You’re gonna go _lay down,”_ Arthur says, trying to sound firm, as he feels his heart aching, John’s eyes bright with fear, open wide, reflecting the moon in their darkness. 

“-And we ain’t gon’ talk no more ‘bout this,” Arthur slowly loosens his grip, “Even if you manage to remember in the mornin’.”

John hesitates, slowly lowers his head to look at Arthur. 

“Arthur… Please, I just-”

“ _Go_ ,” Arthur says sharply, slamming his journal shut and pointing towards their tent, trying desperately not to break as John flinches away, brows turning up in hurt, “Now, boy.”

John stares at him, eyes a bit shiny and Arthur can’t remember if they were like that before this all went to hell. 

The younger man shuffles slowly back before rising, just as slow, if unsteady, like he’s pulling back from the muzzle of a loaded gun. 

And Arthur couldn’t say for certain whether he is or isn’t currently a loaded gun, about to shoot off at the mouth. 

Say something _he’ll_ regret.

Or worse, relent.

The younger man watches him like Arthur’s something fanged and furious and John’s nothing more than a fawn, as he stumbles back, ducking into their tent. 

\--

Arthur sleeps by the fire.

\--

John’s fine, the next day, if more than a bit hungover. 

Arthur lets it drop, no reason to bring it up if John’s forgotten.

\--

“Don’t,” Arthur murmurs, “Leave it be.”

“Why?”

“’Cause.”

“Perfectly reasonable,” John mutters bitterly and huffs as he glances over at the coat in the window of the shop again. 

They’re leaning on the porch railing across the road, three cigarette stubs in the icy mud beneath John. 

He keeps hoping the hot smoke will warm him through. 

It doesn’t. 

\--

“John.”

“Ugh… What?” John groans and lifts his head to glare 

“Cold?”

“The hell d’you think, Arthur?”

John splutters as a paper bundle smacks him in the side of the face, sitting up quickly. 

“Arthur!”

“Oh hush, put it on and get up already,” Arthur rolls his eyes and slips back out of John’s tent.

John huffs and curses and tosses shit around as he gets ready, pulls on his boots and roughly rips into the paper. 

Soft lamb’s wool meets his fingertips and he stops, stills. 

Staring down at the same jacket he’d been eyeing weeks ago.

“Oh,” John says quietly in his empty tent, an uncomfortable tightness in his chest with each pull of cold air. 

\--

“Fit well?” Arthur asks, riding ahead of him. 

“… Yeah,” John says, more weakly than he intends to, more tender and grateful and warm-

Arthur glances back at him with a raised brow at the tone, then looks him up and down.

A thrill shivers up John’s spine. 

“Looks good,” Arthur says casually, turns back around, and rides on. 

\--

It’s colder on the ground, despite the canvas, bedroll, blanket, and his new coat. 

He’s still shivering, hugging himself tightly, brain feeling sluggish as he fades in and out. 

\-- 

_“John-”_

_“Hey, I’m not- Shh, it’s alright. I’m not gon’ hurt you, but you’re chilled-”_

_“-like that, there you go, c’mere.”_

_“Jesus, you’re freezin’, kid, why didn’t you say nothin’ to-”_

_“No, no, hush, I ain’t mad, stop squirmin’ like a damn-”_

_“Yeah, there y’go, you’re alright, boy, just-”_

\--

John wakes up warm. 

His first thought is that he’s dead, and that’s why he’s been relieved of the bitter cold in his bones, then everything shifts. 

Arms, around his waist, the blanket that’s tucked around him, cocooning him, the mass of muscle and flesh and cotton and wool in front of him. 

He cautiously lifts his head and the arms around him go still. 

The blanket is lifted and a rush of cold air floods in, making him flinch, hide his face in the chest in front of him. 

“Ah- Shit, sorry,” Arthur mutters, shuffles around a bit. 

Then Arthur’s head is under the blanket as well and he’s frowning at John like he’s about to scold the younger man. 

“Real dumb of you,” Arthur says roughly, hands shifting to squeeze John’s waist, “Not to tell me how cold you got.”

“You were asleep,” John mumbles.

“Yeah and then woke up to you moanin’ in pain and shakin’ like you were-” Arthur’s voice stops abruptly, and John watches the older man swallow, “Just _dumb_.”

“Sorry.”

Arthur’s nose wrinkles in annoyance then the older man squeezes his waist again. 

“Still cold?” Arthur asks quietly. 

John presses his lips together, debating. 

“What?” Arthur asks tiredly, “Why you lookin’ at me like that?”

“I… I don’t want you to leave,” John says slowly, cautiously. 

Arthur frowns at him suspiciously. 

“I mean if- Look, if you’re still mad at me for that-”

“ _Marston_ ,” Arthur bites out, quiet for their proximity but no less sharp than if it were barked at full volume. 

John can’t stop himself from flinching back, again, the same way he did when he was drunk and Arthur could’ve shot him point blank.

“I said we wasn’t gon’ talk ‘bout this,” Arthur says lowly. 

“I- Alright,” John says shakily, trying to fight the sudden tightness in his throat. 

That bitter, blade-sharp fear. 

John drops his eyes to Arthur’s chest and squirms nervously. 

“No… I’m not cold,” John whispers, “Not anymore.”

Arthur’s quiet for a moment then relaxes with a deep sigh. 

John holds himself very still, keeping his hands tucked close to his chest. 

“John, I…” Arthur huffs in annoyance and trails off. 

“It’s alright- I-” John swallows and feels his eyes burning as he stares at the top button of Arthur’s coat, “Does… Does apologizin’ count as talkin’ ‘bout it?”

“Apologizin’?”

“… I’m sorry,” John whispers hesitantly, “That’s all.”

“… Why?” Arthur asks slowly. 

John blinks in confusion and his expression pinches. 

“I- Am-” John breathes out shakily and clenches his hands into fists to stop their trembling, “Jesus, Arthur.”

“Thought you wasn’t cold.”

_“I’m not.”_

“I ain’t… Why you apologizin’?”

“’Cause I don’t want you to hate me?” John whispers.

“You think I do?” Arthur mutters roughly, tugging at the coat he bought for the younger man, squeezing John’s waist. 

“… I thought you were gonna shoot me,” John admits quietly, “Leave me out in those woods for tryin’ to pervert you.”

“ _What_?” Arthur asks, strangled, pulling back sharply and shoving John’s face up with a hand under the younger man’s jaw.

John meets his eyes only for a second, just as wide and frightened as that night and Arthur gets it, suddenly, why John was so scared. 

Remembers the shotgun not two feet to his left that night. 

“I wasn’t-” Arthur trails off, staring at the younger man as John closes his eyes tightly. 

“I _wasn’t_ ,” Arthur insists and moves his hand to grip the side of John’s face, desperate, “John, I swear- I wouldn’t.”

John nods, once, sharply.

“Alright,” John says soothingly, shakily, bringing a trembling hand up and gently trying to push Arthur’s hand off his face, “Alright, sorry, we can drop it.”

“John, please,” Arthur whispers, “Look at me.”

John’s quiet for a long few seconds, then makes a low, scared sound and opens his eyes. 

“I wasn’t,” Arthur whispers again, begging John to believe him, “I promise- John, I _swear_.”

“Alright,” John says again, slowly, “I said we can drop it, Arthur, I’m not… I’m not gonna try it ‘gain but if you don’t wanna… Stay… I’m fine now.”

Arthur squeezes John’s waist, and moves his other hand down to John’s shoulder, squeezing there as well. 

“I would’ve-” Arthur swallows quickly as his voice cracks, too thick to push out another syllable, “I woulda let you.”

John’s eyes dart over his face, looking for the joke, the lie. 

“If you hadn’t been skunked when you told me,” Arthur whispers, pressing his lips together nervously, “I didn’t want you to… I didn’t want anythin’ to happen while you were…”

“Oh,” John whispers back, hoarse and harrowed, “… Oh.”

“I’m sorry, John, I didn’t mean to scare you so bad,” Arthur rushes, “You just weren’t givin’ and I couldn’t let you do somethin’ like that and live if you regretted it.”

He watches the realization really sink into John, the younger man’s expression smoothing, shifting from worry to wonder. 

“You… You woulda?” John asks quietly, “Let me?”

“I- I don’t… _Yeah_.”

“Oh,” John whispers again and Arthur watches as John shifts slowly, the younger man’s hands moving to grip the front of Arthur’s coat.

They stay like that for a few minutes, just together, under the blanket. 

“Would you still?” John breaks the silence, tentative. 

“… Let you-?”

“Yeah.”

“ _Now_?” Arthur asks incredulously. 

“Well, maybe not… Maybe not _that_ ,” John says slowly, watches Arthur closely as he speaks, “Not blowin’ you.”

“Then what?” Arthur asks breathily. 

John studies him nervously, skittishly, and Arthur feels the younger man tensing under his hands. 

“Maybe more,” John whispers, “Maybe fuckin’.”

“… You serious?”

“… I-” John makes a frustrated noise, “I want you to.”

“You’re not bein’… Doin’ this for dumb reasons, right?”

“Like?”

“Like you… Like you don’t think this is real,” Arthur swallows and slides his hand down to John’s hip, “ _This_.” 

“Oh… No,” John presses his lips together, then presses closer, gauging Arthur’s reaction as he slides a leg over Arthur’s hip, “Wanted this, for a long time.”

“But right now,” Arthur says, “You sure?”

“Arthur, you coulda fucked me dry that night and I woulda _thanked_ you,” John says roughly, “I woulda begged for anythin’ from you. I still will.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” Arthur says quickly, “Not like that.”

“Then grab my bag,” John whispers, “S’behind you, right?”

Arthur looks at him in disbelief then quickly ducks out from under the blanket. 

John listens to the older man rustling around and cursing, a small smile pulling at his mouth. 

Arthur ducks back in, coat removed, holding a little tin. 

He tucks the edges back around them then pauses when he sees John’s smile. 

“What’re you grinnin’ ‘bout?”

“You,” John says softly. 

Arthur huffs and shoves the tin into John’s hands, then just looks at the younger man for direction. 

“Don’t shoot me, but I think I love you,” John jokes weakly and Arthur’s eyes widen. 

They watch each other in equally nervous silence for a few seconds. 

“S’not funny,” Arthur says slowly, “Jokin’ ‘bout that.”

John presses his lips together and shrugs, then looks down at himself and starts to unbutton his coat. 

“Keep it on,” Arthur says quickly, pulling the sides back together and holding them against John’s belly, “Maybe just… Just the bottom half.”

“Alright,” John says with a small laugh, riding on the high of his emotions, “Wanna fuck me in your coat?”

“It- It’s _your_ coat,” Arthur grumbles and watches as John starts to undo his trousers, drawers, pressing up against him, their legs knocking together as the younger man wiggles out of them. 

“You bought it.”

“For _you_.”

“Still,” John says smoothly and Arthur makes a frustrated sound at the petulance, buttoning the coat back up above John’s waist. 

“All grown up n’ still a lil’ shit,” Arthur mutters. 

“Yours, though.”

“Regrettably,” Arthur says then lifts his gaze to meet John’s eyes. 

“Liar,” John huffs and shoves Arthur back a bit, tugging the older man as he turns onto his back, pulling Arthur over himself. 

Arthur holds himself up, shifting to keep the blanket in place. 

“I ain’t gon’ be able to… To get you ready.”

“Nah,” John murmurs and fights with the tin to get it open, “I can.”

“Jesus,” Arthur says shakily and watches John wiggle down under him, butterflying his legs and sitting up as much as their position allows. 

Reaching down between his legs with slicked fingers. 

John makes a face then shifts, looking down as he drops the tin and his other hand moves to cup his balls. 

“Alright?” Arthur whispers. 

“Just cold,” John grumbles, “Everythin’s fuckin’ cold.”

Arthur huffs a small laugh, and John glares up at him, nose wrinkling, then his eyes close, face scrunching up as he slips his fingers inside himself, lips parting. 

And Arthur watches it all up close. 

Sees every line, and dimple and wrinkle in John’s pretty little face as the younger man squirms, fucking himself open with his fingers. 

“Fuck,” Arthur whispers. 

John looks up at him in confusion, pressing his lips together to stop a sound as their eyes meet and he slips in a third finger. 

“Nothin’” Arthur says weakly, “You just… You look good.”

“Thanks,” John mumbles, one eye closing against his will as he curls and twists and spreads his fingers, “You big?”

Arthur just makes a choked noise of surprise. 

“Serious, Art,” John huffs, “How big?”

“I- Just…” Arthur licks his lips and sucks his lower lip in, murmuring, “Thick, not real long.”

John hums quietly, sounding pleased. 

Adds another finger. 

Arthur feels his face burning and he drops his gaze to the side, to the tangles of John’s hair on the bedroll. 

“Still wanna choke on you,” John mutters as squirms, smirking at Arthur’s weak noise, pulls his hands back up, nods down between them, “Can I?”

Fingers brushing Arthur’s cock through the layers of fabric. 

“Yeah,” Arthur swallows, nods, “Yeah, go ‘head.”

John’s fingers are still cool, but not uncomfortably, as they tug open the laces, as John grabs his cock and shoves the fabric out of the way. 

John tucks up one leg, bending it and slipping it up to hook around Arthur’s waist, reaching under his leg to hold Arthur’s cock, press the head against his slicked asshole. 

“Are you sure?” Arthur asks again, shaky. 

“Really?” John asks dryly, “Arthur, fuck me.”

Arthur makes a small sound then shifts down, onto his elbows as he starts to push in. 

Feels John’s hand leave his cock as his sinks deeper into the warmth. 

“Fuck,” John gasps, head tilting back, “Oh fuck, you really weren’t kiddin’ ’bout thick.”

Arthur huffs then pauses, moving his hands under John’s back.

“Too much?”

“No, no, Christ, no, keep goin’,” John whispers, “C’mon.”

“Yeah?” Arthur murmurs and pushes a little deeper, pausing again as he shifts onto one elbow, moving his other hand to grip the front of John’s coat. 

Pushing down lightly as he lets gravity bottom him out. 

“Oh, Jesus,” John whispers and moves his hands up, jelly covered fingers covering his mouth, “Arthur.”

“Good?”

“Yes,” John huffs, “C’mon, please?”

“Don’t wanna hurt you, John, I said that.”

“I frankly don’t care, _move_ ,” John looks up at him and clenches around Arthur’s cock at the same time, the older man gasping, hips jerking. 

Arthur can tell, now, that John’s smiling, by the crinkles next to his eyes. 

He pulls back and thrusts in, a bit rougher, just to see John’s eyes go wide, hear the gasp the younger man can’t muffle. 

“Alright?”

“Arthur, I will _tell you,”_ John says pointedly, “If I ain’t.”

“Hm.”

“Please?” John squirms and rocks his hips up, “Please, please, Arthur, just wreck me already.”

“Might, if you keep bein’ so rotten.”

“Rotten?” John laughs softly.

“Spoiled,” Arthur grumbles, thrusts, “Rotten.”

Thrusts again. 

“A-ah,” John whimpers and moves one hand below himself, lifting his hips up, “ _There_ , ‘gain.”

Arthur waits.

John looks up at him incredulously. 

“Art, c’mon, what?”

“Just wanna listen to you beg a lil’ more,” Arthur says smoothly, despite how much the admission makes him anxious over John’s reaction. 

John blinks up at him. 

“Beg how?” John whispers, “I been beggin’.”

“Different,” Arthur says slowly, “You like it, right? But you’re holdin’ back.”

John groans and squirms and whines, rocking his hips. 

“You want me to go on ‘bout it?” John huffs, “’Bout wantin’ you to fuck me every day? Or anytime you want? Wanna hear how I want you to bend me over that dumb lil’ card table in camp in broad damn daylight?”

Arthur licks his lips nervously, slowly rocks his hips, fucking himself into John. 

John makes a shaky sound and grabs at Arthur’s shoulder. 

“Jesus, Arthur,” John whines low, “Want it, everythin’, anythin’ you could think of and twice that.”

“Keep goin’,” Arthur whispers, starting up a slow, steady pace, “Keep talkin’.”

“Dirty old man,” John gasps as Arthur bottoms out in response, “Fuck. Still wanna get on my knees for you, wherever you want, let you use my mouth regardless who’s ‘round.”

“John,” Arthur whispers, bows his head, “God, really?”

“Yeah, _really_ ,” John whimpers as Arthur finds just the right angle again, starts to pick up speed, “Can’t keep quiet, you gotta choke me up and keep- Keep me like that, fuck- Fuck my throat and-”

John dissolves into small whines and gasps and little bitten back ‘Arthur’s.

“Please, please,” John whispers shakily and moves his hand from Arthur’s shoulder to his cock, “Fill me up, Art.”

Arthur breaks, groans and presses his forehead to John’s chest, gritting his teeth as he tries to keep that perfect angle and thrusting in, losing his rhythm, deep and hard and his toes curl in his socks as he tugs on John’s coat, pulls the younger man onto his cock to bury himself in John. 

“Fuck,” John whimpers and squeezes his cock, jerking himself unsteadily. 

“Coat,” Arthur says hoarsely as his hips twitch and he ruts into the younger man, coming. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” John repeats and drops himself to shove up the coat, stroking as he pulses come onto his stomach.

**Author's Note:**

> [my twitter](https://www.twitter.com/gwennolmarie)  
> Munchy is hosting the Morston Week here's more info  
> [Morston Week Twitter](https://twitter.com/MorstonWeek)  
> [Morston Week Tumblr](https://morstonweek.tumblr.com/)  
> And here's [the collection!](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/MorstonWeek2020)


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